


far from the living

by qwerty24



Category: Bodyguard (TV 2018)
Genre: Angst, Everybody Lives, F/M, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:34:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22831861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qwerty24/pseuds/qwerty24
Summary: David visits Julia’s grave. Then, Julia visits David.How can they return to life with death between them?
Relationships: David Budd/Julia Montague
Comments: 11
Kudos: 85





	far from the living

A ghost kneels in me, asks to be spared.

\- [Alison C. Rollins](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/90972/original-sin-57f673456fb35)

* * *

The bitter wind stings his face as he makes his way down the winding path through the cemetery. He was restless all day, imagining Julia’s funeral this morning, at once wishing he was there and glad he wasn’t. Now he’s come here alone. To do what exactly he’s not sure. No one else is in sight, just rows and rows of headstones and dying flowers.

There was talk of holding a ceremonial funeral for the benefit of the public as a show of strength, but with the state of the government at the moment, such a display would have been a farce. Instead, it had been a quiet affair, just Julia’s family and a private plot far from the prying eyes of the press and the public.

A part of him expected to be invited. A stupid part of him – what was he to Julia? Nothing, a nobody. If anything, he had failed her, his incompetence had her killed. It’s a blow every time. That horrible moment in the hospital when he learned she’d died, the world washed out at the edges, wanting to die and failing at that too.

Her grave sits at the far corner of the field, where the neatly maintained lawn turns to forest. The soil is still fresh and smells like rain, the lilies scattered above are wilting gently, the headstone is all sharp lines and gleaming granite. Something about the inscription, her name and the day she died carved into rock, breaks the final piece of him that was still holding on, the horror these last few weeks made completely real in front of him, the undeniable truth that Julia is gone, buried in the ground beneath his feet.

He kneels at the foot of her grave and places his feeble bundle of tea roses on the raised ground. Ella helped pick them out at the florist. “For the lady who got hurt?” she had asked so innocently, enraptured by all the colors and scents around her.

The wind picks up as the clouds darken, and he raises his head at the distant crack of thunder. His face is wet. Is it rain or tears?

_Julia._

How could she leave him like this? How could she be dead after everything?

He presses his hands into the soft earth, feels the grains of soil crumble between his fingers. Every dream, every waking moment has been consumed by thoughts of her, her rare smile, the taste of her mouth, her small hand in his. She should be just a memory now, distant, fading – instead, each moment they shared together, every look, every kiss, every touch of her soft skin, seems to rattle around in his mind’s eye, brighter and brighter, a hell only he knows.

The skies have opened up and it’s coming down in sheets, drenching his clothes, his hair, rivulets of water clouding his vision. He remembers that conversation in the green room the day Julia died. How he actually believed there could be a life with her for him. Her imploring eyes, his fear, her final misplaced trust, his ultimate failure. He buries his face in his hands, oblivious to the dirt and rain and finally lets himself cry.

* * *

She’s watching herself on television again. It’s nothing new, of course, she’s seen herself plenty of times in playback having her speeches ripped to shreds by whichever hotshot commentator of the day is on the program. But since the bombing it’s been a different kind of disconcertion. The solemn anchor is reporting on her funeral.

She watches her face flash across the screen, footage of smoke and flames rising from St. Matthew’s on that fateful day, mugshots of Nadia, Craddock and Aikens. Her poor mother, she thinks. Lowering a casket weighed down with stones into the ground.

The days since she regained consciousness in a military hospital at Aldershot have bled together into one long dream-like haze. The first few weeks are only dark memories of pain, of wishing she had really died – the healing burns and wounds, surgery after surgery to fix every broken and fractured bone in her body. Then, the realization that she was alive, but totally alone in the world now, everyone who she’d ever cared about believing she was gone.

When the conspiracy to assassinate her had finally been uncovered she was allowed to return to London under strict oversight. No PPO, no entourage, just two hired guns Sampson had personally vetted to keep her confined as much as to keep others out. So this barren hotel room and the never ending drone of the television have become her only companions as she learns how to live as a ghost, caught between life and death.

She remembers a night a lifetime ago, a different hotel room, a different fear, David’s strong arms, his breath feather light on her skin, his mouth, his hands. She should have told him right then and there. She should never have left him like this.

The segment on her funeral ends. Next up is the chaos the government is embroiled in as a power struggle plays out in the open. The new PM, a young, power-hungry thing who reminds her of Roger is trying to call a snap election. He wants his cronies around him through the coming storm. The world is moving on. Will there be a place left for her if she ever manages to return?

She roots around in the bathroom cabinet until she finds her painkillers. She pops three and downs them with a swig of gin straight from the bottle. This is how she spends most of her days now. Boozing and drugging and trying to forget. She turns the television all the way up, until it’s just a throbbing noise. She lies down and dreams of drowning.

* * *

David shifts nervously outside Sampson’s office, wishes he was anywhere but here. He was supposed to have the kids today. But the Commander had insisted on seeing him. A harried looking PC rushes out of the office and gives him a curt nod, “Sarge,” before scurrying off. Out of this mess, Sampson’s come out mostly unscathed. But he doesn’t trust her. She can be ruthless. He remembers spying on Julia for her, how she was prepared to let Julia die at Thornton Circus, and him at Pope Square.

“Come in,” she directs in a voice that could cut glass.

“Ma’am.” He keeps his distance by the door as she swivels to face him.

“Sergeant Budd, please take a seat,” she gestures with a forced smile. _Fuck_. Whatever is about to follow cannot be good. “I’ll get right to the point, Sergeant. I think nothing would surprise you now, would it?” Again with the forced smile. He thinks he’s going to be sick.

“I’m not sure about that, ma’am,” he responds as he keeps his eyes fixed on the skyline behind her.

“As you know, the Home Secretary – or rather, Julia Montague – was targeted in the St. Matthew’s College bombing. She suffered serious injuries and you – and the public – were led to believe that she succumbed to her injuries in hospital.” He feels like all the air has left his lungs, like he has been punched in the gut. But he steels his expression, gaze still trained on the horizon.

“In reality, she was hidden away for her own safety. Once she was stabilized, she was moved to Aldershot where she stayed until she was recovered enough to travel.” His ears ring, but it’s not from fear. He has to remind himself to breathe, to unclench his hands and his jaw and not scream or cry or whatever it is that’s bubbling up inside him.

“Where is Julia now?” he manages, mentally kicking himself for using her first name. He can’t risk anyone, let alone Sampson, knowing what she was – is – to him.

“She was at a safe house until we could neutralize the continued threat to her life. Now that they have been apprehended, she has returned to London,” Sampson says, studying David’s face intently for any sign of instability.

Julia’s right here in London – alive. He wants to turn around and run, tear through the city until he finds her. Instead, he bites the inside of his cheek and holds his poker face, trying to keep his thoughts in check.

Sampson’s intense gaze softens a little as she senses David trying to keep his composure. “I’ve called you here, Sergeant Budd, because she would like to see you.” He lets out a sharp breath, unable to hide his surprise and relief.

It’s the strangest dream unfolding before him, Sampson giving him instructions he can’t quite concentrate on, that image of Julia in his arms the day of the bombing seared into his mind, then just yesterday standing over her grave, all these memories fusing into one long nightmare. Suddenly jolting awake, only to find himself here in another unbelievable world, one where Julia is alive, alive, alive, waiting to see him.

He’s in a daze as he leaves the building, stumbling as he descends the stairs, something like a prayer or a curse on his lips. How could he have been prepared to let Julia go, only for her to come back from the dead in the worst hour? How can he face her again after what he has done, after what she has been through?

He makes his way through central London toward The Blackwood, the place where this all started. He’s been instructed to wait in the designated room until Julia comes to him. It’s still too risky to reveal where she is, even to him. “Too many nutjobs out there,” Sampson said, giving him a pointed look, like he might be one of them.

He slides the key card and the door opens with a click. Just a normal hotel room, like the one all those weeks ago. He perches on the edge of the bed in the dark, staring at his own shadowy reflection in the mirror across from him, just waiting, waiting, waiting.

* * *

When she calls Sampson, it’s an order, not a request. She might be nothing now, not the Home Secretary, not even an MP, just a dead woman still walking, but Sampson owes her, and she has leverage. Of all the people she could bully Sampson into letting her see, of course it’s David. Not her mother, not the new PM, not Craddock or Aikens or Nadia so she can put a bullet between their eyes herself. She wonders if he is angry. If he is relieved. If he will agree to see her. Doesn’t he want to know that in the end, he did save her?

At The Blackwood, she takes the service elevator. It’s like bad déjà vu. What will he say? What will she do?

And then, he’s right there and she’s alone with him in another sterile hotel room. Why is it always like this? Secretive, death looming over them, desperation like a second skin.

He speaks first. “ _Julia_.” And for a moment, it’s like there was never a bomb, never her broken body bleeding out in the operating theatre, never alone and afraid. He looks a little haunted, gaunt behind the cheekbones, like he has been alive, but trying not to be.

And then she’s in his arms again, finally, finally. “God, I’m so sorry,” is all she can manage, and it sounds so stupid, so empty, as if she hasn’t lied to him, hasn’t made him think she was gone forever when really she was right here, in the same country, the same city, just miles away. How could a distance feel like a lifetime?

He buries his head in the crook of her shoulder, and she feels his mouth along her jaw, not a kiss, just closeness, and she wraps her arms around him too. There’s a strange sound, like an animal, and she realizes she’s the one who’s sobbing, whimpering, salty tears stinging a not quite healed cut on her cheek.

“I’ve got you, I’m here, Julia,” he repeats, hand gentle on her head, fingers tangling in her hair, trying to reassure her, but now choking up himself. She’d forgotten what a human being felt like, what with her own body a damaged shell, not quite an animated corpse, but almost. She can feel his heart pounding in his chest, his hot breath on her face. She wants to commit it to memory.

* * *

How they end up like this, tangled in the sheets, his mouth working at her throat, her hands trying to work the buttons on his shirt, is no mystery. She’s been here before, she thinks, conjuring up the taste of blood, blood in her hair, in her clothes, under her fingernails, and how David had touched her and made her forget. They are predictable creatures – living, shagging, dying, over and over again.

Is she afraid? She remembers the last night they were together, this very hotel, pinned to the floor, stars sparking at the corners of her vision, David strangling her. What’s the worst he can do? Kill her? She’s died once and lived to tell the tale. There’s nothing left to fear now, not life, not death, and certainly not David, his insistent hands groping at her through her blouse, his mouth on her hers, not kissing, just breathing, then biting and teeth and he’s been drinking and she can taste it.

It’s not romance, whatever this thing is that they’re doing, not fucking either, otherwise she wouldn’t let him touch her like this, the heel of his palm between her thighs, his other hand on her knee, opening her legs. Her body aches, part injury, part wanting. _Fuck_. Why did she let him do this to her again? Why did she do this to him again?

She hates to admit it, but it’s even better now, now that she’s come back from the dead, come back for him. He finds a long scar running down her sternum, still pink, a little raw, and he looks up at her, eyes darkening.

“It’s fine,” she reassures through the panting, but he doesn’t look fine at all, all live wire like he might come apart at the seams at any moment.

Enough of this half-baked tenderness, she thinks, and fumbles around between them until she finds him and guides him so that he knows exactly what she wants. It’s totally artless, clumsy like they’ve forgotten some things, but she’s already close so she couldn’t care less, just wants this to be good if it has to be the last time.

But then he stops and she makes a desperate, plaintive noise, clawing at him.

He looms above her, a dream she must have had once, and finds her wrists to pin above her head. He’s still inside her, and she squirms, trying to break the rules, trying to show him she’s not weak. His eyes are dangerous, and she hates that she likes it. He moves just the slightest bit, testing her.

“Tell me you didn’t miss me. Tell me,” he says, starting to move again. She knows what he’s doing. She can play this game too.

She doesn’t answer.

* * *

His flat is a mess. The kids have just left with Vicky, and toys and paints and markers are strewn all over the floor. A hundred dirty dishes wait for him in the kitchen. He would deal with this now but he has somewhere to be.

His phone goes off. It’s Sampson. Again. He lets it go to his voicemail.

When he gets to the hotel, it’s already dark out. Sampson’s goons are nowhere in sight. “I told them to fuck off until tomorrow,” Julia whispers into his open mouth.

Her tongue darts around until she finds a spot under his ear. Her hands find his waistband. Always so impatient. He wonders what the fuck he’s doing here. He could sell this story to a rag for a thousand pounds. He could tell her he never wants to see her again after what she’s put him through. He could go home to Vicky, confess to everything, apologize for what he’s done.

Instead, he turns Julia around so she can’t see his face and the turmoil that’s playing out there. He pulls her hair back, reciprocates her earlier mark with one of his own between her shoulder blade and neck, sinks his teeth in until he nearly breaks skin.

She turns her face so that he has access to her mouth – always that insolent, inviting mouth – and kisses her hard, teeth clashing, and she moans like she really means it.

He tastes blood.

Is it his or hers?

* * *

She’s brushing her teeth naked over the sink. The bathroom door’s open and she can see David watching her through the mirror. She gargles and her spit runs pink to the drain. She wraps a bathrobe around herself and shivers at the sudden chill.

When she returns to the bed he’s propped himself up against the headboard like he wants to talk. She ignores him and burrows under the sheets, her back to him. She feels him shift beside her and the lamp turns off with a click, shrouding them in darkness. Some temperamental stiches along her ribs burn. Overexertion, maybe. She brushes her fingers over the jagged scar tissue and gasps at the sharp twinge of pain.

David jolts. “Julia?” If only the way he said her name could cure every ill.

“It’s fine,” she murmurs into the dark, turning to face him but unable to find his silhouette as her eyes adjust. _Fine, fine, fine_. She’s always fine. Shot at, blown up, near-death, and she’s still fine.

The night turns to dawn behind the drawn curtains. Somebody’s screaming. Not just yelling, but really wailing like someone’s dying. She feels a hard hand grip her shoulder and shake her, and the pain ripples through her body.

Oh. She’s the one who’s screaming. She’s the one who’s dying.

* * *

He’s been to war. He came back. He’s been strapped into an IED. He survived that too. He knows all about the damage you can do to a person. All the parts that get destroyed and can never be fixed. War is one thing, violence another, and death a fear beyond them all.

Scars on the body, on the psyche, on the soul – he has them all. So how come he can’t find the right words for this? Morning light spilling into their room, Julia curled in on herself, the sheet slipping down her back revealing the hurt that shows itself on the outside.

The minutes feel like hours until she finally unfurls, a thousand-yard stare as she blinks weakly against the light.

“I’m sorry,” she says softly, turning to face him. How many times has she apologized to him? “You must think I’m pathetic.”

“No, I don’t,” he says, and nothing else. Just grasps her hand in his like he might not let go.

She reaches out to brush a tuft of hair out of his face and runs her fingers over a thin white line she finds there.

“This is new,” she whispers, unbearably gentle, like one wrong move and the both of them might shatter.

“I did something stupid,” he says, and then, tired of all this purism, fixes his gaze on her, “I shot myself. But Aikens had my bullets switched to blanks.” He’s surprised when he doesn’t falter, when the truth comes easily. He’s surprised when she doesn’t look away, just holds his gaze and cups his face in her hand, brushing her thumb over his cheekbone.

She pushes her own hair – longer and uncut since the bombing – behind her ear and takes his hand to trace a sunken scar, notched by her temple and running down tight against her ear before disappearing under her jaw.

“We match,” she laughs, but it’s a hollow sound.

* * *

So much ungodly suffering. And she's undeniably played a part in it. Who was she before the bombing, before she died? She can barely remember. It feels like a whole other person.

She tries to imagine David, younger, afraid, a soldier and also barely beyond a boy.

She was a criminal barrister. She knows the fucked-up things human beings are capable of doing to one another. There must have been a part of her that really believed she was doing the right thing, the good thing.

There were the other parts too. How silly she was to think that Whitehall was immune to fucked people and their deranged machinations. Money-hungry, power-hungry – as if she hadn’t also played the game. As if she hadn’t also wanted the coup.

And now where was she? Alive, but just barely, lower than a ghost walking through this world. Her body, battered, a nightmare patchwork of flesh and bone. That was the thing – how one moment you could be steps away from the highest post in the land, and the next, a corpse, still warm as others trampled over you to the top.

There's still a coffin in the ground with her name on it.

David is speaking, but she can’t quite make out the actual sentences. He gathers her in his arms, this one place she’s always felt safe, this one man who’s never wanted to hurt her.

“…when I came back home I thought I was still dead,” he says into her hair and she finally strings the words together, finally understands that the two of them are not so different after all here in this anonymous hotel room, both wounded, both trying to claw their way back to the world of the living.

That very first night, so long ago: _I was being shot at!_ As if he didn’t know something about fear? About life and death?

* * *

When he closes his mouth around hers, she’s a live thing, fingers tangling in his hair, nails scraping down his back, hips canting up to meet him. He’s breathless, hurting for her, wanting her, grieving her.

She says it with conviction this time: “I missed you.”

* * *

No cage fighting, no dodging and parrying, no blood sport. Just the two of them, his body, hers, scars and all.

He touches her and nothing can hurt her now.

* * *

He’s preparing to leave, only the smallest bruise above his collar hinting at what’s transpired between them. She follows him to the door. This isn’t goodbye.

One day, he thinks, they won’t need hotel rooms and furtive encounters. But for now, this will have to be enough. He kisses her one last time, the lightest flutter.

* * *

She’s not a fragile thing. Breakable, yes – just look at her.

But she can heal.


End file.
